


Collecting Strays

by veni



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1467028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veni/pseuds/veni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Chilton arrives at Will's house, bloody and frightened, Will doesn't call Jack: he takes the man in, willing to help hide him from the Ripper. He always did have a bad habit of collecting strays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collecting Strays

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Hannibal kink meme prompt](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/3819.html?thread=6820587#cmt6820587%0A): _Instead of calling Jack (or maybe after Chilton succeeds in escaping Jack), Will decides to hide Chilton in his house to keep his only witness safe for when he finally becomes useful._
> 
> Chilton/Will is my secret love, please write more of it you guys. I mean Chilton is so pathetic and needy, how could you not love him?
> 
> Note: written in one go over like two hours, please forgive any grievous mistakes.

There is a moment where Will thinks to call Jack. But when Chilton steps out of the car, hair askew, clothes drenched in blood, eyes wide and fearful, the moment passes. His dogs surround Chilton like he’s one of the pack, and Will sees him as he never has before: wounded and in need of care. Rehabilitation.

 

He always did have a bad habit of collecting strays.

 

* * *

 

Chilton showers, dresses himself. It’s odd, Will thinks, to see him in something other than a suit. He darts around, throws clothes in bags with jittery hands and paranoid glances. A rabbit caught in a snare, desperate to free itself. So desperate that it might rip off its own leg. Panicking to the point of self-destruction.

 

In Chilton’s panic Will sees himself.

 

“I’ll catch the Ripper,” Will says, voice even.

 

Chilton jerks his head. “I know you will, and I will read about it in the papers and, when that time comes, I will reintroduce myself into society. Until then,” he says, but Will cuts him off.

 

“You can’t hide from him.”

 

Chilton swallows audibly. He stops throwing things in his suitcase and he glances up, locks eyes with Will. His breathing is very shallow. “I have to try,” he murmurs. His voice shakes. “I am a man without options.”

 

Will rises from his chair. “You have another option,” he says, and he can see the moment Chilton understands. He blinks. “You can’t be serious,” Chilton answers. His voice is so obviously distrusting that Will could laugh, if it were about anything else.

 

“The Ripper...he isolates. Separates you from the herd, cuts you off from people and _normalcy_ like he’d cut off a limb.” He gives Chilton a wry smile. “Working together...He’ll never expect it.”

 

Chilton is very still, the only movement a slight quaking of his lips. Finally, he nods, a short, sharp jerk of the head.

 

Will smiles, and shows him upstairs. He never uses that bedroom, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Jack never searches the house, never even suspects that Chilton would come to Will, let alone that Will would allow the man (his warden, his therapist, the man who practically salivated at the opportunity to pick Will’s brain) to stay in his home. There’s a nationwide manhunt for Chilton, but Wolf Trap is another world entirely, cut off from the rabble of polite society. A sanctuary.

 

“Your linens are atrocious.”

 

Though you’d never know it was a sanctuary, the way Chilton carries on.

 

“They’re the only spare sheets I have,” Will tells him. Chilton gives him a sour look, and Will tries not to laugh into his breakfast. “Not as nice as your guest sheets, I take it?”

 

Chilton scoffs and Will laughs for real. Across the table Chilton seems to bristle. “I’m glad that I _amuse_ you,” he says bitterly, and there’s a flash of real hurt across his face that stops Will dead in his tracks.

 

“I’m not laughing _at_ you, Dr. Chilton,” he says. “I’m merely enjoying your conversation.” Will waves his hand in a vague gesture. “You’re _funny_.”

 

“Ah.” Chilton stares at him. He looks flustered. “Well, please forgive me, then. I didn’t mean to be so defensive.” Discomfort is very clear on his face; Will can’t imagine he’s had much practice apologizing.

 

Will waves it aside. “No offense taken.”

 

They continue eating in a companionable silence, the quiet broken occasionally by the dogs. When Will finishes his meal and stands to go to the sink, Chilton rises quickly. “Allow me,” he says, and he takes the plates before Will can raise a single objection.

 

“Thank you, Dr. Chilton,” Will says, surprise coloring his tone.

 

“Happy to help,” Chilton murmurs from the sink. He doesn’t turn around. “And you can call me Frederick.”

 

 

Will’s father had taught him how to whittle, a lifetime ago. Will had never been very good at it, but he was passable. And canes weren’t too hard to make, anyway.

 

Chilton accepts the gift with averted eyes. His injury embarrasses him, Will knows, but with his preferred cane left at his house (and now part of the FBI’s evidence collection, Will does not doubt), a replacement was needed.

 

Chilton cooks him dinner in thanks. He’s not a very good cook, but Will appreciates it all the same.

 

* * *

 

A month passes, and Will finds he enjoys coming home to Chilton. He’d expected the man to be grating and insufferable, but Will was resigned to do the right thing, even if it meant burdening himself with a particularly heavy cross. And Chilton is a pompous ass, as Will expected; he is sarcastic and frequently obnoxious, but, surprisingly, there is not true vitriol there—there is humor in him that Will did not expect to find, and Chilton seems to genuinely enjoy Will’s company. He cares for the dogs while Will works. He cooks meals (poorly, but with such enthusiasm that Will comes to enjoy them). He cleans the house and reads books and engages Will intellectually, without the lurking threat that so often colored Hannibal’s conversations. Chilton actually, genuinely _smiles_ at Will.

 

Will thinks that Chilton must not have many friends. They have that in common.

 

And so Will is pleased with himself, with his burgeoning friendship. The two men settle into an easy routine: Will arrives home from work, they eat dinner, Will takes the dogs to the woods for a bit, they chat in the sitting room, and they part ways for bed (Chilton climbing the stairs to his room, Will retiring to his cot by the dogs). And one night, as they sit on the floor surrounded by Will’s dogs, Chilton rests a hand on Will’s upper thigh.

 

Will’s voice dies in his throat. He’s always been bad at reading signals, oblivious to the point of insult, and he didn’t think—he hadn’t imagined— _Christ_.

 

Chilton is staring at him, and Will realizes he’s supposed to have some kind of human reaction. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 

Will is frozen. He has no idea what to do in this situation, he’s so bad at this sort of thing. Time passes in an agonizing crawl, and he feels Chilton’s hand retreat like a wounded soldier. “Needless to say,” Chilton mutters, “this was not the reaction I was hoping for.” He grasps his cane and rises awkwardly to his feet. “Please forget this ever happened.” He shuffles through the pile of dogs and climbs the stairs quietly, and Will just sits on the floor, motionless, wide-eyed, completely frazzled.

 

And, now that he thinks about it, kind of hard.

 

He hears Chilton’s door click shut. That’s Will’s life: doors shutting, locks sliding into place, things he wants slipping from his fingers like rain, vanishing before they can be grasped. And with a start he realizes that Chilton, insufferable, pompous, vain Dr. Chilton is something that he wants. Somehow Dr. Chilton has become _Frederick_ , a man as lonely and insecure and victimized as Will himself, and he likes him. And he’s right upstairs.

 

Will rises, and ascends the staircase.

 

Chilton hasn’t locked the door. Will enters it and finds the man lying on the comforter, fully dressed but for his shoes, kicked off on the floor. Chilton doesn’t look at him. “I am sorry,” he says, and his voice is so soft and broken that it makes Will’s heart ache. “I seem to have misread the situation.”

 

With a great deal of effort Will catches the man’s eye. “Well,” he murmurs, “not exactly.”

 

Chilton looks at him, really looks at him, and at the light flush creeping up Will’s neck, he smirks. “I knew I’d get something about you right one of these days.”

 

Will smiles, and he crosses the threshold.

 

* * *

 

Chilton’s scar snakes around his midsection like a vine, a stark white streak along the planes of his flesh. Will traces its path with his fingers.

 

Beneath him, Chilton shudders. Will shifts a bit, slips Chilton’s cock deeper inside, and the man lets out a strangled moan. It had taken a bit of maneuvering to find a position that didn’t cause Chilton any unbearable pain, and this seemed to work best: Chilton beneath him, hands resting on Will’s hips, Will sinking down onto Chilton’s cock.

 

“You are...far too good at this,” Chilton hisses as Will rolls his hips forward. “This should be on your resume.”

 

Will throws his head back and laughs. Chilton watches the long white line of his throat. “I doubt the FBI would appreciate this.”

 

“Idiots, the lot of them.”

 

Chilton’s cock throbs; Will can feel it thick inside him, and he bends forward, presses his forehead against Chilton’s chest. The hair there scrapes against Will’s skin. He kisses that scar and Chilton swears.

 

When Chilton comes—cock buried in him to the hilt, thighs quivering beneath Will’s weight—Will thinks of strays and lost things, and the beauty of a home found.


End file.
